XIV

 

 

PIG-GREASE’S CEASELESS, INCOMPREHENSIBLE ranting was getting on Gisburne’s nerves. He’d seen it many times among men whose lives had disappointed them – who felt God, or the cosmos, or something owed them a favour. Whatever their bitterness towards the world, he couldn’t see how shaking their fists at it would help. It was a waste of energy. “A bitter adversary is at war with himself,” de Gaillon would have said, “and therefore has to fight on two fronts.” De Gaillon had a saying for just about everything.

At first, as he and Galfrid had prepared their bonds – tying them back to back with their own rope – Gisburne had simply ignored it, as one ignores a spoilt child, hoping the fire would burn itself out. But Pig-Grease’s bile seemed to flow from an infinite resource. Rather than simply put up with the noise, Gisburne had taken instead to delivering a lecture on their attackers’ tactical shortcomings.

“You see, the first problem,” he said, “is that you put yourselves in your own trap.”

“I said this was a bad place for an ambush,” whined Rat-Face.

“Shut your head!” rasped Pig-Grease. It was the first coherent thing he had said in some time.

“Actually, it’s a good place for an ambush,” continued Gisburne. “If you were on those rocks up there” – here he pointed towards the ridge above with his knife – “you could have picked us off with a bow – even a boulder – and there wouldn’t have been a damn thing we could have done about it. But you were too afraid to kill us. With your own hands, anyway. You hoped the rope would do that work for you.”

Galfrid lifted Pig-Grease’s hands, which were tied in his lap before him. Pig-Grease struggled hard to pull them away, but the elderly squire held them in an iron grip, wrinkling his nose at the bloody stump where the forefinger used to be. “This won’t hurt,” he said, then sprinkled some brown powder onto the raw flesh from a small leather flask. Pig-Grease howled in agony. Expressionless, Galfrid turned away to tend their horses.

“Putting yourselves down here was the big mistake,” continued Gisburne. He shook his head, and tutted. “Rocks on either side. Nowhere to run. And you have no horses. Even if you shot one of us, the other could ride you down. Trample you into the frozen ground.” He shook his head again in dismay, and pulled the bonds tight about the pair. As he leaned in closer, Pig-Grease spat. The stringy phlegm stuck to Gisburne’s shoulder.

“I’m a fair man,” he said. “But you’re seriously trying my patience.” He stalked away and plucked the paramerion from its outline in the snow. Rat-Face wailed with anguish as Gisburne advanced towards them, closing his eyes and hunching into his shoulders as if somehow believing he could make himself disappear. But Gisburne strode straight past, thrusting its blade into the hard ground some thirty paces from where the two sat. “If you can crawl this far, you can cut your bonds before your arses freeze,” he said. “By which time, we’ll be long gone. If you can’t, well... You’ll have plenty of time to think on your errors.”

Pig-Grease roared at him – spitting words that were either in another language entirely, or so warped with rage that they were rendered unintelligible. But there was little doubting the intent.

“Be thankful,” said Gisburne, heaving himself into his saddle. “Others will come. Worse than us. They may not be content for you to simply lose a finger. So, if you want to live, I suggest you pick a new profession.” Then, just before finally turning away, he added: “And sell the sword. It’s worth more than all of us are carrying.”

“Why did you spare them?” said Galfrid as they rode away.

“Because they were weak idiots,” said Gisburne.

“But they still might prey on someone weaker. Some poor pilgrim.”

Gisburne shrugged. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

“My God,” said Galfrid. “You actually think one or other of them has a chance. That they might reform their ways...”

“There’s a possibility,” said Gisburne.

“You’re an optimist!” Galfrid chuckled. Then guffawed. It was the first time Gisburne had seen him laugh. It might have been a good thing, had it not been at his expense. “You believe men are good!” He hooted with laughter again.

“No,” snapped Gisburne. “But everyone deserves the chance to be so. What of it?”

“Somehow, I never had you down as the type.”

“I make no apology for not wishing to kill those weaker than me. I’m a knight. Not an executioner.”

Galfrid pondered that for a moment, his laughter subsiding. “Don’t you always kill those weaker than you? Those you have managed to defeat or subdue? I mean, in practice, don’t they have to be weaker, in order...”

“Enough!” said Gisburne. “If I want a philosophical debate, I’ll ask.”

He almost found himself adding “I don’t debate with squires,” but he bit the words back. That, he realised, would have made him sound like the kind of knight he hated. He salved his conscience with the thought that this squire would try the patience of a saint.

They rode in silence for a moment before Galfrid spoke again. “I notice you weren’t so protective of my existence.” There was a pinched tone to his voice as he repeated Gisburne’s words. “‘Kill him, then’...”

Ah, so that was it. Feeling hard done by. Gisburne was damned if he was going to be made to feel guilty about that. “He was never going to loose that arrow,” he protested. “It’s like I said. If he’d meant it, he’d have pinned us from up there in the rocks. You saw his eyes. He was no killer.”

“That’s an optimist’s view,” said Galfrid matter-of-factly.

“I’m not an optimist,” said Gisburne. “I’m a realist.”

Galfrid sighed and shrugged. “Perhaps I’m no great loss.”

On that, however, Gisburne refused to be drawn.

“Do us one favour,” said Galfrid, eventually. “Put that bloody box in a sack.” Then he geed his horse into a gallop.